


(not all love is gentle) sometimes it feels like teeth

by shipwrecks



Category: In the Loop (2009), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Politics, that's this pairing's motto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6427885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never not been a mile ahead of every idiot around him, planning his reaction to shit they haven't even done yet. He does it without even really assimilating current knowledge, just assumes and he's usually right. So, to stop and think something over, that's. Unsettling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(not all love is gentle) sometimes it feels like teeth

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo most of this has been sitting on my hard drive since like, 2013 when i first watched the show. but in a bout of thesis-induced panic and Distinctly Avoiding My Research, i finished it. full disclosure: some of it was written while high and listening to one song on repeat. i am actually rather fond of it, because i usually can't write for characters that i don't fully identity with. and while i think there's at least a little malcolm in me, i am in no way as ruthlessly machiavellian (altho to be fair that's more laziness than lack of desire). but i think i captured him pretty well. or at least, i like my malcolm. ahem. anyway. in the words of jamie, lots of love, byeeeeeee

_Not all love is gentle. Sometimes it’s gritty and dirty and possessive,  
sometimes it’s not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth._  
—[Azra T](http://5000letters.tumblr.com/post/85215751017/not-all-love-is-gentle-sometimes-its-gritty-and)

It's funny, in the way it would be funny if Malcolm had a sense of humor whose cornerstones weren't government cock-ups and violent sexual imagery.

He can't explain how it happens, only that it does happen (and even that, even harnessing all his powers of spin, he can't make look like it's, like he's, supposed to). Just knows that it is happening, seemingly all the time, and now he's not so sure what to make of it. When it comes to stopping, full-stop, to think, he's out of his depth. He's never not been a mile ahead of every idiot around him, planning his reaction to shit they haven't even done yet. He does it without even really assimilating current knowledge, just assumes and he's usually right. So, to stop and think something over, that's. Unsettling.

He suspects that Jamie is analyzing it much less, perhaps not overanalyzing it. But he's not overanalyzing it, he swears, just compartmentalizing and filing away parts of his life into 2 distinct folders of 'work' and 'work'.

But he's getting ahead of himself, as he is wont to do. It starts out like this.

 

He found him at a seminary, Malcolm did, and what is the likelihood of either of them being in a seminary especially at the same given moment. As it turns out, before Malcolm plucked him out of the priesthood of Motherwell, Jamie was quite likely to be in a seminary. People laugh when he says that's where he found him, and Malcolm laughs the loudest, because only he realizes it's the truth.

There was a…thing between the two of them even right from the start, in that Jamie stood taller when Malcolm insulted him and Malcolm gave up halfway on most of the verbal tirades directed at him. Those were simpler times.

He imagines if he believed in love, that's what all this was leading up to. Anger and swearing. Retorts and yelling, he knows he's basically half hard and Jamie's much easier to get hot under the collar. Until one time he just shoved shoulders so knees hit floors under desks, and that was that. He imagines he's less angry after he comes, but he's not.

Jamie smiles a wicked grin and blinks long lashes, says _I've got ministers to slaughter_ with his eyes, says _I learned how to from you_. The butcher knife that is Malcolm's tongue is heavy in his mouth, he can't say anything.

 

When the PM resigns, it is the longest night of Malcolm's life. He doesn't read the news (except that, you know, of course he does, he just believes fuck all of it) but he might side with The Guardian when they called him Downing Street's velociraptor just this once. The next morning, he can't feel his legs and his skull feels about eight sizes too small for his brain. Everything's sorted though. He'll be invited to the breakfast meeting. Jamie fucked him over and almost lost him everything, pint pot Judas he says before the meeting. _I don't think we can work together anymore_ , he'd say after the meeting but his mouth is full of Jamie's cock.

 

Fuck Nicola Murray. He needs Jamie now more than ever, to deal with all the shit she unleashes on him all the fucking goddamn time. The department's a joke, everyone knows that, but it's still a government department that gets press. And whoever said "all press is good press" is a fucking liar, and such a fucking idiot that Malcolm imagines their head is so far up their ass they can measure their own fucking intestines.

So he needs Jamie. In a purely, very professional way just to help manage to the utterly mismanaged fuck-ups who have only managed to get themselves governmentally employed, quite possibly by listing 'supreme ability to completely fucking ruin Malcolm Tucker's life and potential to ever go on holiday' under Useful Skills on their resume because HR is so incompetent, and because he makes sure they know it, they would go out of their way to hire those particular bastards.

But he's all but isolated himself from Jamie, people don't even recoil from Jamie anymore; well, they do, but it's no longer in anticipation of Malcolm's inevitable arrival. They rarely pass each other in the building, and no, that's obviously not because Malcolm has found another way to get to his office, ta very much.

He finally calls him, tail between his legs, when shit hits the fan factory. Jamie asks for a bit more asking than he wanted to give, but he complies. For the honor, sake, something of the party. He leaves a list of people who need bollocking and why with Sam, tells her to give it to Jamie when he gets to his office, leaves for DoSAC without his arms fully in coat sleeves because he doesn't really want to see him. 

That, of course, backfires. If he'd just stayed and said something to Jamie first, he wouldn't have actually had to truly see him. (And perhaps, he hates himself for this, it's why he didn't stay.) But Jamie does eventually find him; thankfully, he doesn't say anything in public. Even he knows there are limits, and despite what it'd do to Malcolm, it's not worth risking his own job or reputation. So he lies in wait, and Malcolm knows it.

"Can't believe you've found a new fuckin' way t'get t'your office."

It is revealing of how different the two of them are, how Jamie can't ever focus on the bigger picture. Malcolm's bigger picture is avoiding a verbal response in favor of looking up from errant papers on his desk with a pointed glare that both serves as a response in itself as well as asking him just what the fuck he thinks he's doing here.

(He saunters forward, like he used to, after a particularly successful day, trailing behind Malcolm and following him back to his office. But he corners him now, isn't going to let him snake out of this one, and attacks like a hawk. They kiss like riding a bicycle; they still remember how. Jamie reaches at Malcolm's trousers first, never could wait, and bites his tongue.

"Fuck," he growls as he pushes Jamie down onto his knees. He goes much more willingly this time.

He’s quick, Jamie, and has got Malcolm’s cock in his mouth almost as soon as he hits the floor. Malcolm leans back, head hitting the wall with a dramatic _thud_ , the immediate pain numbing his thoughts, which he needs right now. Can’t think about how much he hates this fuckin’ bastard, how much he hates how much he likes him. Jamie can take all of him, doesn’t even need to use his hands, those snake up his thighs and grab his balls. Malcolm’s head spins; he chalks it up to a mild concussion. He’s nose to pubic hair, the tip of Malcolm’s dick hitting the back of his throat. He murmurs appreciatively around his cock, when he knows Malcolm’s watching, when he knows the sight will get him almost as good as the sensation.

Malcolm shoves him off but keeps a hand on his shoulder, keeps him right in front of his cock. He strokes himself and his grip on Jamie tightens. He feels soft skin and hard collarbone under a crisp white shirt. He quickens, quickens, so very close, then comes all over Jamie's face. He opens his eyes as if reborn. A spunk baptism. He has never looked so young in all the years Malcolm has known him, or so good. He pulls Jamie up by his tie and he splutters. He fixes himself right and nods over at a box of tissues for Jamie. After cleaning up, he kisses Malcolm and Malcolm lets him.)

He gives a look back that answers _I don't know_ and leaves.

 

Tom finally calls an election, but it’s too late. They’re not polling well and for once, a situation is now out of Malcolm’s hands. That’s probably why they lose.

Jamie drags him back to his flat, it’s closer, even if it’s not as nice as Malcolm’s. He never inspects the place anyway, makes straight for the bedroom, the purpose of him being here obvious. No other reason. But Jamie’s fine with that, he’s fine with this.

He is a little rough with him though, pushes him around as he kisses him, too much teeth. He strips him of his clothes fast, palming his crotch, Malcolm’s cock now getting hard. They’re against a desk that was close to the door, didn't make it any further, and Jamie flips him around, bends him over it. Malcolm hisses, a sharp intake of breath, his ragged thin frame knocking against the desk, all points and angles. He was always lanky, but he remembers a time when his bones didn’t poke through like they do now, bruises coming easier, physical manifestations of the job. Like a penance.

Jamie wants to feed him when he sees the notches of his spine as he’s bent over, but he knows Malcolm runs on pure, unadulterated rage with only the occasional satsuma. It’s no use. At this point, the job’s eating him. Instead he prods a finger into him and his eyes flutter shut, the softest thing Jamie’s ever seen him do, through no volition of his own. It’s tender just the same, in the weird way that almost everything he does is somehow tender to Jamie. He rocks back onto him, demanding another finger, and he loves to see Malcolm needy like this. He’s not sure who’s seen him like this, not sure _anyone else_ has. That idea, that Jamie is somehow special enough for this, gets him harder than he already is.

After a third finger, Malcolm grows impatient. “Just fuck me, yeah,” he says, without the inflection of a question, and Jamie finally does.

He’s thrusting into him, almost maniacally, the way Jamie does everything, and Malcolm just takes it. It’s the only thing he can only sort of feel anymore, Jamie’s Erratic Pounding, the words in uppercase in his mind, along with the less obvious, lowercase skin on skin. He hits his prostate which makes him clench around him. Which is, of course, too much for Jamie. He quickens his pace, slams into him while gripping his hips tightly, comes inside him on a backstroke and some of it’s dripping out. He looks wanton like that, still tensed, still hasn’t come, still aching for that release.

He turns him back around and starts jerking him off, knows he won’t take long. The expanse of his neck is exposed as he throws his head back when Jamie runs a rough, calloused thumb over the head of his cock. Jamie sees imagined bruises along his collarbone, from days long gone, thinks about the first time he ever blew Malcolm, fucked him, kissed him. Remembers leaving the seminary to tag along with Malcolm to Glasgow. Remembers thinking of that as the big city, not realizing he'd ever leave Scotland and live in fuckin' London of all posh places. Managed to get Jamie a job at his paper and that was that, everywhere Malcolm went, he'd bring Jamie with him. It was a non-negotiable of every job after, and people wanted Malcolm enough to take Jamie.

Malcolm comes with a groan that feels heavier than it should and he strokes him through it, come all over his hand. He licks it clean as Malcolm moves for the unkempt bed. (He’ll think about that taste again, often.) He joins him and plucks a pack of cigarettes and a light from the side table. He lights one, Malcolm makes no effort to disrupt the silence.

It's over. Him and Jamie. His government. Him, eventually, he knows. What is the point of a decent communications director when the press isn't writing anything he needs to spin? They'll be looking for reasons to sack him. He takes a drag off Jamie's fag, and his chest tightens. He feels hollow, spent. Like he's spent the last two decades building up pressure, waiting to come, and now the moment's over. He coughs and Jamie laughs, but it's empty.

Maybe in other jobs, other worlds, they are happier. Maybe he should have left him in that seminary.


End file.
